Whilst reading Rilke’s exquisite The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge :
But alas, with poems one accomplishes so little when one writes them early. One should hold off and gather sense and sweetness, a whole life long if possible, and then, right at the end, one could perhaps write ten lines that are good.
But it is still not enough to have memories. One must be able to forget them, if they are many, and have the patience to wait for them to come again. For it is not the memories themselves. Only when they become blood in us, glance and gesture, nameless and no longer to be distinguished from ourselves, only then can it happen that in a rare hour the first word of a line arises in their midst and strides out of them.